


Wise Men Say

by orphan_account



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, F/M, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-09
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-19 21:21:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4761455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“The Dalish are not to be trusted, they are wild and do not follow the Maker’s will, ” Antoine muttered after a time, when it was just him and Cullen left around the fading light, “May the Maker turn his gaze on you if you should ever encounter one.”<br/>And yet, he had seen one.<br/>And she’d helped him. Twice. </p><p>Or, Cullen; new Templar recruit, knock kneed and wide eyed, finds himself over his head after nearly drowning, in every sense of the word. Friends are not made in the thickets of Thedas, especially not between mages and templars.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Only Fools

**Author's Note:**

> This entire plot started from a conversation I had with a friend, we were talking about how old Cullen was when he joined the Templars, and suddenly that spawned this huge monstrosity. I'll add more information about characters and tags as the story progresses, but as this has the potential to be the longest and most complex story I've ever written, I don't want to spoil too much. I'll try to update semi frequently- this is probably my favorite plot idea I've had, so I won't be abandoning it anytime soon. Thanks to Taryn for her support and help in developing the plot for this fic! Anyways, enjoy!

 

It was nearly winter when Cullen saw his mother for the last time. She’d been all bundled and frayed, all carefully tucked away shudders, all red rimmed teary smiles. His family was proud of him, they’d all said, but none of them would meet his eyes.

A Templar _. Their boy._

Branson had tried and failed to seem all hard edges and unmoving firm pressed lips, Cullen supposed he’d wanted to have faith that his big brother would return. Templar’s were heroes, Cullen had reminded him. Heroes always returned. Branson had pressed a coin into his palm with clammy hands and told him it was for luck. Cullen had to fight back a sudden burning in his eyes when he shoved the coin into his boot.

Mia had trembled, tears staining her cheeks. She was never afraid to hide her emotions, where Cullen was facts and rules, she was full-fledged impulse and fire, and she cried so hard that day Cullen had worried it would put all the fires in her out.

“I’m so proud to call you my brother,” she’d whispered, but it didn’t feel like the whole of her words had made its way past her downturned lips. Mia’s shoulders were heavy when she hugged him tightly to her chest. He was nearly at her chins height.

His youngest sister, Rosalie, was too little to understand what was happening, but she’d heard that Cullen was leaving and hadn’t stopped sobbing since. He tried very hard not to seem upset when she’d wrapped her chubby arms around his neck and slapped a sloppy kiss on his cheek. It had all been rather spur of the moment, he surmised, but the glint of Templar had caught his eye and he knew in his heart that it had stuck. He was stubborn, like Mia had always told him. He was strong like Branson believed. And he was going to be a hero.

Leaving his only home of thirteen years was easier than it should have been. He didn’t look back once as he followed the dusty dirt road out of dusty, dirty, Honnleath and onto a new life.

 

  
___________

 

  
Training was excruciating, in many ways, and far simpler than he’d expected in others. The new recruits were expected to leave all possessions behind, to forget earthly belongings. “Your faith in the Maker is all you need.” Cullen had never grown up with much to begin with, his family wasn’t destitute by any means, but they were a working family. Farmers and blacksmiths and anything at all really to get food on the table and the door on its hinges. His few belongings amounted to a little boat he pushed around on the lake made of driftwood and a scrap of fabric, and a toy sword.

He saw the holsters on the Templars hips, he knew of things better than what he had.

Yet, Cullen had kept the coin, tucked just inside the heel of his boot, and later in a sewn pocket on this inside of his lapel. The Maker is all I need, he’d think, but he’d rub his thumbs over the grooves and divots and think of lakes and toy boats anyways.

As a working family, Cullen had partaken in a fair share of hard labour. He was after all, the oldest son. Traditions to uphold and family honour and the like; all responsibilities he’d never taken lightly. Morning routines had him feeding and tending to horses, chickens, and their cow, heading off to help his father in the forge, tending to crops and digging up weeds; all manner of chores and hard work, little time for play.

The physical and material requirements, or lack thereof, were easy. As if Cullen was meant to hold the Templar shield and sword proudly. Faith in the Maker would see him through.

The emotional requirements, he’d found, he would struggle with for years.

As the years rolled on, and he was given more responsibilities and duties, he’d flourished. His Knight-Captains told him sternly that he showed great promise and the Maker smiled upon his efforts. He wore these gruff compliments with great pride, at first. Cullen was growing taller, and his physical training and extreme labour resulted in a much tougher, angled, exterior. His emotions, his tenderness, however, had yet to be moulded. A little thumb grazed over a secretly kept coin, a little thought on watered smiles and plowed fields, a little boy from Honnleath stumbling his way into boots a little too big.

One day he’d been woken by a fellow Templar and herded off into his Knight-Captain’s office. They’d spoke of promise and upholding the Maker’s will, and controlling abominations and dangerous mages, words and phrases he’d heard of, studied, but held no real meaning. Mages were something of a mystery to him; all flickering light and dancing ice and terrible, terrible danger. He supposed he was a bit fascinated at the time.

His Knight-Captain had clapped him on the shoulder, abruptly.

“You’re ready,” he’d said. A glowing glass of blue liquid in his other hand.

Cullen knew of strength, he knew of righteous power and the bright blue courage Templar’s lived and breathed. As he graciously accepted his gift, his reward and honour, he suddenly knew of order.

Lyrium never started out easily. There were often fevers, uncontrollable shaking and hallucinations. To a young boy of sixteen, born to common parents in a common town, magic hadn’t had the chance to so much flit past his vision. It felt like fire, like ice. It felt like liquid stars and burning embers. For a long while, Cullen forgot who he was beyond the blur of blue and silver metal. It would be the first of many, Templars weren’t introduced fully into lyrium until they underwent the ceremonial process at the age of eighteen, but this felt like something more. Like a beginning.

“I serve the Maker and the Chantry and I will do as I am commanded.”

To serve the Maker. And the Chantry. And this power, this lyrium. It felt like becoming a hero.   
So he hefted his shield up a little more at an angle, better to deflect projectiles and acid and any other mage tricks, and swung his sword a little harder, a little faster. In the quiet hours of the night, with the thrum of blue under his skin, he ran his thumb over the lucky coin one more time and thought of home.

 

  
____________

 

  
“The Northern Free Marches,” Antoine, his Knight-Captain, began, “is a large sprawling mess of disorganized nature. I despise it.” He huffed. “Yet, we are here, and it is by the Maker’s light that we travel. We must all endure.”

Cullen said nothing, but quietly marvelled at the sheer amount of green around him. Honnleath was a faded smudge of dust compared to the vibrancy of the forests here. The air was so full, he felt as though his feet could gain wings.

The other new Templars shifted uneasily, restless. They’d been on horseback for the majority of a week, the expanse of land available to them now had created an itch behind Cullen’s teeth. He held himself very still.

It was his first actual mission, a month long endeavour to the Free Marches to gather materials for the Templars and investigate reports of strange magical phenomenon in the area. He secretly believed the Captain had simply wanted to inspect the Templar camp nearby, Antoine was rather particular and a bit of a tattle tale, truth be told. Cullen would never miss an opportunity for real world applications of his training, however, and tried his best to graciously accept the honour when it had been presented.

The forest was, enchanting in a strange sort of way. There was an ancient feel to it, as if many eyes were upon him at all times, simply observing. It made him twitchy, and terribly nervous. At the same time, there was a great undercurrent of beauty and freedom here that he felt utterly enraptured by.

The first few nights he spent under the scattered stars peeking between the trees, and for the first time since he’d left home, he felt like crying. An older Templar boy beside him snuffled in his sleep and mumbled something about fire and magic and Cullen slipped his coin into his hand and fell asleep with it tucked into a fist.

 

  
________________

 

  
A week into his mission, Cullen found himself trampling through the tall grass and brush, alone. He wasn’t sure how, but Roderick, the older Templar boy he’d become unsteady friends with, had managed to completely wander off without Cullen’s notice. Cullen had stooped down to investigate a particularly strange coloured flower, attempting to ascertain whether it would be useful to bring clippings back to camp or if he’d develop a rash immediately after, and Roderick must have simply kept on walking. How the older boy had made it this far into his life without wandering off a cliff, he’d never understand. The boy could be distracted by a simple shadow.

To add to his misfortune, Cullen had ungracefully tripped over a branch shortly after and tumbled down quite a large hill. In other words, he was rather lost.   
A marvelous excursion, to say the least. Antoine would be so proud. He let out a long sigh, the hill he’d fell down was more like a cliff leading into a valley, it might be best to attempt to go around instead. As he looked along the horizon with a sinking gut, he realized he would be walking for quite a while.

“Fantastic,” he muttered. Cullen was aching from his morning training and it was rather hot, with a weighty humidity of late afternoon, so he picked a direction at random and began a sulking, steady trip onwards.

He’d been staring down at his boots, sulking- very un-Templar like, he was going for a record that day of the most mess ups- when suddenly there were a pair of brown feet in front of him.

“You’re going the wrong way,” a young voice told him, matter of fact. He blinked, and there was a small girl in front of him. Her short white hair was messily chopped and braided in strange patterns, and it fell in front of her large cat like eyes as she shook her head at him.

“Messy, messy shem. Do you not know anything?”

It occurred to him that he should have been offended, but he couldn’t find it in him to close his mouth let alone think of a response. Her words fired like daggers, belaying a quick, nimble quality underneath the tiny baby fat rounded cheeks.

She had markings…strange white ones that curled out from her hairline and onto her cheeks in a swirl of lines and circles. Her eyebrows pulled together, in frustration or amusement he honestly could not decipher.

“Are you content to stand and blink like a toad, or shall I point you in the direction of your other metal men?” He frowned in confusion, the wheels in his brain finally gaining traction.

“Metal…men?” His words felt slow and stupid in comparison to her lightning quick ones. She obviously thought the same, as her lips pressed together in a thin line.

“Yes, you are in fact wearing metal, are you not?” She placed an impatient hand on her hip, and Cullen was half convinced he’d knocked himself out and was dreaming of the Fade. Strange snarky girls wandering in the middle of the woods. He opened his mouth to ask where in Maker’s breath she’d appeared from, if any of this was even real, just as she pushed a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. Behind her long pointed ear.

“You’re an elf.”

She scoffed at him. “And you, are Shemlen.” She tossed him a dirty look and began nimbly stepping away. “There’s a ledge just around the corner you can leap up. Best be on your way.”

He stared dazedly after her, as she leapt onto a low branch and away from sight, disappearing almost as quickly as she’d appeared. Cullen was unsure how long he’d stood in the clearing in confusion, but once he’d regained his senses he did find a ledge a few yards onwards he could pull himself up on, and promptly, the log he’d stumbled over before.   
As he returned to camp a few hours later, covered in dirt and exhausted, he decided it best to pretend the strange Dalish girl had been simply a dream. The alternative made him uneasy.

Tomorrow the troops were heading to a west camp, across the river. He’d need his strength, and Maker preserve hi, he could use a break.  
The eyes staring at him from the woods felt a little more solid that night, he found no comfort in the dead stars.

 

  
_______________

 

  
Cullen was floating, a drowsy pale light trailing towards him like outstretched hands. A high pitched trill pulled at the back of his mind like an itch, a strange burning in his chest echoing along with it. He couldn’t recall where he was, if he was awake. He couldn’t find it in himself to much care, as his eyelids drifted closed. Cullen was forgetting something, he was forgetting. And suddenly the drifting muted light went dark.

 _I’m so proud to call you my brother,_ Mia said, flipping a gold coin into the air. _So proud, Cullen. But you need to wake up_. “Wake up!” He sputtered back into life with an abruptness that ached. Like the grips of the Fade were unwilling to surrender such an easy voyager. 

She was here again, all white cropped hair and large eyes. She was saying something, using that word again, what was it? Shen? Shorn? He wondered what it meant, and why she kept directing at him. 

She had beautifully full lips, he noted blankly, as her mouth moved in speech he did not have the capacity to understand.  He felt hands on him, flittering about like birds, and thought maybe he groaned, or else the very earth below him shook apart. A crevice in the dirt for him to float gently down into seemed almost too inviting.  It felt like molasses, like the stumbling drunken men he’d seen leaving taverns, all bubbly and baby footed. There was pain in his lungs, though, and some distant part of him reasoned that his lungs should not be feeling the way they did, and it would be best if he were to breathe.

Then he was coughing, and there were cool hands pressed to his neck and back and stroking through his hair. It reminded him of Mia, with her gold flipping coin, and the thought made him shake. He closed his eyes tightly together as the coughs subsided, and pulled his knees to his chest. The still distantness of the pain was too intense, suddenly, too loud. He felt fire in his chest, in his head, and ice everywhere else.

He was cold, terribly so.

“Here, drink this.” The Dalish girl pushed something hot into his hands, a cup of some kind, he focused on trying to move his hands. He fumbled with it for a moment, breathing in the scent of elfroot and something sweet. It soothed his aching, raw throat and gave some clarity to his addled mind, and Cullen realized he was very, very tired.

“Who are you?” He rasped, as he felt himself sway unsteadily from his half upright position. She admonished him lightly, pushing him downwards onto something soft. He went willingly, or he fell, both were the same.

“Rest, Shemlen.”

His eyes felt tied down, pulled with weights and he couldn’t fight it if he tried. He dreamt that he was holding someone’s hand, that something gentle brushed across his brow, and then he didn’t dream at all.

 

  
__________________

 

  
Cullen had been missing for days when the Templars found him on the side of the river. It had rained heavily the day of their departure westward, the rivers ran faster than they’d anticipated. A younger boy, Michael, had nearly fallen into the rushing waters as they crossed over a log, saved only by Cullen’s quick reflexes and strong arm. Unfortunately, as Cullen hefted the boy to safety, it had been at the expense of his own balance and he’d tumbled unceremoniously into the waters head first. They’d thought him dead.

By all accounts, Cullen should have died.

He recalled a flash of white hair and cold hands telling him to rest, but little else. He thought it best to keep that to himself, however. The Knight-Captain didn’t need him spouting off tales of young, nimble Dalish girls traipsing around nearby, especially considering how she’d apparently saved his life.

If his brain hadn’t been entirely scrambled, then some strange forest dwelling little elven girl had plucked him from a watery grave, nursed him to health for two days and then promptly vanished. In all honestly, Cullen had no idea what to think himself. 

“What do you know of Dalish elves, Knight-Captain, ser?” He’d nervously asked a few nights after he’d recuperated, as the troops huddled around a steady fire. Antoine’s eyes seemed to burn molten red in the flickering light.

“Why do you ask? Have you seen one of them nearby, Rutherford?” His voice was all hard edges.

Cullen frantically shook his head, nerves building in his chest. “No! No, ser, not at all. I merely, wondered…. They live around the wilderness of the Free Marches, do they not? I figured it’s best to be prepared…. In case of such an event. As it were,” he coughed uncomfortably, face heated.

If the Knight-Captain suspected anything more, he didn’t show it, and Cullen felt himself let out a breath he’d been unconsciously holding. He moved to stoke the fire carefully, the crackle and pop of the flames licking the air and filling the silence. The other Templars began slowly trailing back to their tents, wishing quiet farewells before trudging off into the dark.

“The Dalish are not to be trusted, they are wild and do not follow the Maker’s will, ” Antoine muttered after a time, when it was just him and Cullen left around the fading light, his voice low and filled with a bitterness that surprised Cullen. “May the Maker turn his gaze on you if you should ever encounter one.”

He'd heard some tales, of the intensity of hatred that burned within the Dalish people, about their bitterness over a war no one could truly recall specifics of. Cullen supposed he would be angry too, if his land and people were stolen. 

They sat in quiet for a while, watching the fire slowly burn out until only embers remained and the pale white of the moon whisked them both into their cots. As Cullen pulled off his boots and settled in for the evening amidst other slumbering recruits, he found himself thinking of white hair and pointed ears and a gentle hand tracing patterns through wet hair with a fondness that left him breathless. 

She'd saved his life, she'd thought him worth saving. The thought was more comforting than anything he'd experienced as a Templar so far. 

 


	2. Rush In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen makes his own path and can no longer stay afloat.   
> "He should have ran then. Everything within him was screaming for him to move, to dive back into his cot at camp and close his eyes tightly and forget. Or to wake up his Knight-Captain and tell him everything, to take any punishment with open arms. He should have backed away from her still outstretched hand like it was fire and he ice-were they not? Polar opposites and trouble and ash and death and everything else he’d been afraid of."

He shouldn’t have been traipsing around in the woods at night, it was a terrible, horrible idea, but he had to know. The Dalish didn’t like humans, didn’t like outsiders. The Dalish weren’t to be trusted, they were brash and violent and killers, they didn’t follow the Chantry, they were unpredictable and filled with long held anger. Yet, he couldn’t get his fevered mind to leave it alone, to leave her alone.

She hadn’t reacted with anger when he’d seen her, she hadn’t appeared to have any sort of weapon on her in fact. She’d been curious, almost. As if she were speaking to a strange animal she’d never encountered before.

He didn’t know much about the elven people of the woods, why they hated humans was a tale wrapped in layers of exaggeration and bias but he’d always been told that they were irrational that they just simply hated him and he should leave it alone. For the longest time, he’d thought of them as myths. So had many others, it seemed to fantastical, it wounded the ego to greatly to think of a powerful and dangerous group out there in the wilderness sauntering about able to do what they pleased. They had their own gods and own systems, and their mages were allowed to be people and exist with others, rather than locked away and kept under careful watch. He wondered if they had malifecarum, or if somehow they were all blood mages. It was too much, too filled with danger and inherent unnaturalness, every instinct screamed danger and death.

And yet, he’d seen one.

And she’d helped him. Twice.

Cullen knew, logically, that he shouldn’t be actively lurking towards where he’d first seen her. Maybe it had been a fluke, her generosity and kindness, maybe she’d had ulterior motives. Maybe he was ill, he’d been feverish and confused after the river incident.He thought he imagined it, a response to shock maybe. His mind reeling and grasping onto the first logical assumption after nearly drowning. It seemed too whimsical, too fantastic.

She was, after all, very pretty, with her full lips and quirked eyebrows and dainty, nimble hands. The way she’d stood unflinchingly in front of him in spite of his metal and sharp bits, cocked hip and heavy sarcasm. Templars were above fascination. It had to be a trick of the Fade or something more sinister.

None of that explained how he’d survived, however. Or who had nursed him to health, or how he’d ended up out of the icy grasp of the river, asleep but otherwise in full health, with his brother’s coin tucked into his undershirt pocket carefully. He’d like to think it was the Maker’s divine will, or the grace of Andraste rewarding him for his dedication, but it felt too much like luck and too much like a rescue to be true.

His mother would be very cross if she knew that her ‘good and responsible’ oldest son was wandering in the Free Marches at night looking for trouble. Only a few years into Templar training, and he was already breaking all the rules. Horrible. She’d always said he was too curious for his own good, the one more likely to get into trouble out of all his siblings despite Mia’s brashness and Branson’s naivety. He needed to know if he was losing his mind, if he should be shipped out of the wilds and back to Ferelden’s Circle, if he should be turning to the Chantry, or if…

If she was real.

A twig rustled nearby and his fingers flexed towards the short sword on his hip. “Hello?” His voice sounded so feeble in the powerful stillness of the night, like a sheltered wooden boat on a lake far too large, waves threatening to pull him under. There was an undercurrent in the air, something that spoke too much of crashing and sinking, or maybe something more. He felt very much like a little boy playing pretend, afraid suddenly of what might be awaiting him in the dark. Bears or wolves or large waves, or worse, small, fierce elven girls with white hair and sharp tongues. Cullen didn’t know what he was expecting, what he wanted; for her to appear and prove the depth of the trouble he was in, or to never have existed so he could prove his own insanity to himself, or perhaps a painful and violent demise at the hands of an angered clan of skillfully nimble elves. He was a fool, or mad, clearly.

“What have you come out here to find, metal boy?” A voice, her voice, nearly whisper quiet. He whirled around, and there she stood all confident cocked hip and unblinking bravery.  
  
“You are real,” he found himself once again paralyzed by surprise, strange considering his own conviction in her existence. Cullen should have been afraid, for what this meant, for what this could mean. He could have been angry he supposed, or tearful, grateful perhaps. A whirlwind of thoughts crossed his mind, but instead he found himself feeling something far lighter.

Relieved.

“I am. So are you, I’ll have you know. Stating the obvious must be your favorite game to play, strange.” The girl nearly smiled, allowing a quirk upward of her lip. She was, teasing him? He felt heat rise to the tips of his ears much to his horror.

“I meant simply that… you are- ah. You exist and…” His hand unconsciously reached up to rub his neck. He couldn’t bring himself to look her in the eyes, there was a foreign quality all about her, from the way she stood more on her toes than the heels, the way her hands fluttered about, never quite still. “It was you, I mean. I remember….white hair and I…” He paused, “I wanted to thank you.”

Cullen blinked at the mess of words he stumbled through, had he wanted to thank her? He supposed so. She was real, evidently, and not a demon or a trick. It stood to reason that he should be thanking her, profusely even, now that she was a real actual person, because it meant that she had rescued him. It mean t that she’d single handedly plucked him from a watery grave and taken care of him until his fellow Templars could safely take him back to camp.

She seemed equally surprised, much to his confusion.

“It’s just that, well. Maker’s breath, I don’t know who you are, or why you seem to be following me, or why you’re here. Now. Talking to me...but. I mean that is…” He had to be dreaming, or near death, because he could find no other explanation for his sudden stutter, or the fact he was even conversing with this strange girl. He probably needed to lie down.

She said nothing for a long moment, simply regarding him with curiosity mixed with caution. He felt his own posture mirror hers. “I’ve been told that the Dalish, that you….Well. You hate humans, you’d shoot us down on mere sight alone and yet. Here I am alive and well, and I’m led to believe-“

“Enelya.”

“I….er. What?”

“My name. It’s Enelya. I’m assuming you also have a name, unless you would wish that I call you _shemlen_ or ‘large stuttering metal boy’.”

“It’s uh. Cullen. H-hey wait! I do not stutter.”

Enelya, which he thought was rather pretty, despite the way his thick, stupid tongue mangled the pronunciation and turned the lovely flitting word into a mess of hard sounds and meshed vowels, and caused her to laugh in a tinkling chime, was going to cause his early grave he was sure. Something in the way she half grinned, a flicker of approval in her features, or perhaps the simple causality she exuded, it felt a lot like golden corn fields and chess games and a coin with slightly worn ridges. It felt a lot like diving into icy river water and losing sight of which way was up.

She was so strange, so unique. He was afraid of scaring her off, of moving too quickly and sending her skittering back into the darkness. Cullen had been traversing the wilderness for weeks, but nothing quite as captivating or deeply wild had ever crossed his path, it frightened him and yet, he couldn’t find it in him to leave.

“I should be telling you to leave, these are our protected lands after all. Not for big messy metal feet.” She seemed almost as if she was daring him, gauging his reaction. He inhaled sharply.

“You could. Tell me to leave, that is.”

Her eyebrows lifted, surprised. “I could.” It wasn’t really a question, not a threat either. He placed his next words carefully, like treading on splintering ice.

“I would go. My camp has to stay and I would recommend- you should avoid it, my Knight-Commander doesn’t like elves but…. Blessed Andraste, this was foolish, I know I simply….” The blush from his ears would never leave, Maker preserve him. His fumbling tongue couldn’t seem to stop.

“I won’t.”

He looked at her, then, taken aback. Her eyes were laughing, twinkling green and yellow hues, cat like and yet all her own. “Keeper tells us tales, that these metal shems are dangerous. Not to be trusted. _Ma melava halani._ You think with words, not blades, it’s curious. I should like to find out more.” He felt like blushing, though he had no idea why.

“Tomorrow,” she smiled, like a promise.

He wasn’t sure what overcame him, his reasonable side must have been knocked out at some point after his near death experience, but he found himself smiling back and nodding as she stole off into the woods once more. The lingering of an unspoken agreement on his teeth. He knew instinctively, he’d be back tomorrow, which was entirely absurd. She was dangerous, clearly. Too quiet and quick, and she’d been following him. He had no idea what her motives were, or really anything beyond her name and her confidence and her fascination with his metal gear and clumsy feet.  
But more importantly, she was real. The rest was just, numbers and noise. He found himself awaiting the next night, almost immediately after Enelya had left and he knew he was very much deeply in trouble.

  
________

  
It became something of a ritual. Cullen would sneak away when he could, find the place just below the hill and just out of sight and she’d be there. Every time he berated himself for his stupidity and his infatuation and every time he knew he’d be back.

He wasn’t sure why Enelya was always there, as if she had nothing to be doing, as if she wasn’t also afraid and cautious. Cullen wanted to ask, some nights, but he didn’t want to shatter apart her strange fascination with him nor his own fascination with her. He supposed it was almost poetic, embarrassingly so. Two people from different lands, finding common ground and enjoying stolen time. And he was scared, for whatever reason terrified, that each night would be the last. Surely she’d be gone tomorrow, and yet she always returned.

His morals, instilled by the strict Templar order, said he should report her, that he should uphold his duties to his captain. She was nice and kind, though, behind her barbed words, and he owed her something intangibly larger than he could place words to, so like his coin he kept her tucked away and quiet and thought about her smirk and chess tables and home. There was a peacefulness, in their dark meetings, a semblance of relaxation amongst training and traveling and the hectic mess his life had become. He never realized he needed a moment to breathe, until she was there offering it to him. So he’d stumble through the dark, sit in a space within a hollowed stump, and she’d ask him questions about humans and this Chantry and why his people poked and prodded things with sharp sticks. He gained his ability to speak eventually, though maintained awkward difference, and asked her in return about her swirling tattoos and her acrobatics and neither of them touched or answered too honestly and they fell into a strained half-friendship. Something more than what either could have expected, more than either should have allowed, but not too close to bite. Not close enough to hurt if she never returned.

The Templar mission turned from a month excursion to a two month, than a four month. Antoine had his orders and the new recruits had theirs and Cullen was in no hurry to leave anyways.

One night, there was a strange static in the air. The beginnings of a storm, it tickled the breath in his lungs and pulled at the hairs on his neck. The air felt damp and expectant as he quietly stepped through the leafy underbrush, towards the scraggily stump that had become their meeting place. He ran through the usual thoughts of why’s and how’s and when will this end where do we stop Rutherford’s, and waited for the telltale rustle of tree leaves before Enelya appeared. When she came crashing through the brush, it was with an undertone of stress and frazzled, heaving breaths that set Cullen’s shoulders on edge, becoming hard lines and forceful blue veins once more. Danger, he’d assumed. Someone was after her or him, Templar training had him standing and shifting into a guarded and defensive stance, and scanning the trees carefully.

“Quit that,” she’d barked at him. He felt his hackles rise, brimstone bubbling in his chest, he was only being careful. “You’re so…” she made a wild gesture, “Can you be less? I don’t need metal, you are all edges, constantly unbending, like a mi. It’s very annoying. Can you not feel it?”

The confusion around Enelya, he feared, would never fade. She was always three skips ahead and frustrated at his inability to keep up.

“Feel what?” he felt grumpy, unsure as to why he’d come tonight if it meant he’d be berated and most likely insulted in languages he didn’t understand. Predictably, she let out a long breath of air. Muttering something under her breath.

“The power in the air, Cullen! The storm on the horizon. Does it not invigorate you? I can barely contain it myself.” She seemed jumpy, twirling away from him in a graceful sweep he felt vaguely entranced by. She was endless motion, tonight even more so, like she was plucking stars from behind the clouds and stepping carefully around each one.

“There’s a storm coming?” He offered, cautiously. He didn’t know what to make of her unhinged excitement, she had been more comfortable around him recently, but such a large display of emotion was strange.

Enelya looked at him with a wild grin. “It’s lightning, I can feel it.”

“It does feel… moist.” He settled on a word, unsure what she was looking for. Enelya gave a frustrated huff, and he cringed, he’d guessed wrong again.

“You _shemlen_ think so simply, Keeper was right about this.” She frowned at him, before a light flickered across her eyes and she reached out to him. “Take my hand, metal boy.”

Cullen felt suddenly very, very thin. Like a strand of thread being pulled towards an expanse of fabric. They were always careful not to touch, some unspoken boundary they would not tread. Something was different, tonight, something intangible and vast. What choice did he have but to hold on?

Their hands touched and he felt it, the energy crackling across the sky and through his bones matching harmoniously with the energy sparking within her, complimenting each other and pulling around each other. He felt it dance through her and towards her fingertips like refracted light on stained glass, it felt beautiful and powerful and graceful and he recoiled so quickly it was like lightning in itself. She stared at him then, the ‘o’ shape of her lips forming slowly as a look of horror settled in her eyes, he felt his own expression mirror hers.

She’d felt it too then, the sparks of her mingling in with the electric blue of him. The lyrium song, faint as it was, had grown to an encompassing orchestra in the presence of her magic. It felt like taking the liquid all over again, like he could push outwards and outside of himself and swallow her lightning up. It terrified him.

“You’re….you’re a mage,” he breathed as she exhaled an echoing shaky breath. It wasn’t a question, more like a wavering reality. One step further into the broiling waves.  
The tragic poetry of their tenuous friendship crashing around them in slivers that burned with a reality neither of them had wanted to acknowledge. The Maker had a terrible sense of irony, and a worse sense of humor.

He should have ran then. Everything within him was screaming for him to move, to dive back into his cot at camp and close his eyes tightly and forget. Or to wake up his Knight-Captain and tell him everything, to take any punishment with open arms. He should have backed away from her still outstretched hand like it was fire and he ice-were they not? Polar opposites and trouble and ash and death and everything else he’d been afraid of. He’d signed up to be a Templar to be a hero, to stop the destruction and to serve the Maker in the most honourable way he knew how, faith in the Maker should see him through. He’d signed up to be a hero, to restore order and to follow the Chantry in the best way he knew how, and here she was this…this mage, this abomination by all means and yet…

His faith had brought him here, to this girl with the confident smirks and quick insults, and now shaky, scared eyes. She stared at him, mouth rounded in realization, he had never once seen Enelya look anything other than cautious, anything more than suspicious. “Cullen…” Her voice was so small, it twisted at his heart. He had a choice to make, now in this silent moment, with so much weight above the both of them. It would be the smart decision, for them both really, to cut ties and leave. She didn’t really know him after all, and he didn’t really know her, and yet they’d stolen the nights together for weeks, months now even, and he’d come back willingly every time.

“Cullen.” Enelya was shaking, her frozen hand trembling. She looked every bit as small as she was then, no bravado holding her frame up tall and wide. “What… what was that?”   
The Maker had brought him to this girl, had he not? Fate had allowed her to save him, and he had a choice to make. If he told his Knight-Captain, he might hurt her. She was young, too young, she might not be trained. She could be a danger. And the way Antoine had spoken of the Dalish with simmering disgust and molten eyes…  
She’d save d his life once.

Hesitating for a moment, thinking of whispered tales of blood magic and demons, and then, her wobbling lower lip, and suspiciously shiny eyes, and those strange words she kept whispering towards him. She had yet to look away, frozen in fear and uncertainty. “C-cullen, I know you helped once. Keeper told me of how you…Templars… you are trained to take magic, to fight it. You told the other man, your Keeper, that I didn’t exist. You kept me a secret. I- I never gave you my thanks but, you are different. You are like _lethallin_. Please…”

Cullen was thin, he was not the man of large strides and larger words he’d admired when he was younger. He was not the bright metal of the order, as much as he tried. He was still that little boy with the coin and the siblings he loved too much, and that voice within him was whispering, pleading. Maker, but he had no choice but to listen. Cullen was pulled, was willingly drawn, and he reached his hand out to hers once more.

Her small hand was warm, and shaking, inside his larger one.

“Enelya, I….” Words faltered, _I trust you, though I shouldn’t. Enelya I will keep you a secret for the rest of my life. Enelya, I believe you are the exception to everything I’ve ever known. You remind me of home._ “I’d like to tell you where I came from. I’d like to tell you about Honnleath.”

Her smile was worth all the storms that raged inside, and the ship within him he knew would no longer stay afloat. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not too sure how I feel about the length of this chapter, I think it should be longer to really draw out this beginning tentative friendship side but, at the same time these are meant to be more like snapshots of time in a long drawn out tale so I'm just going to go with it. Maybe when everything's posted I can tweak and add from there haha. I know Dalish are typically more unwilling to talk to outsiders, but Enelya's main fault is that she's far too curious about everything. Eventually it would lead her to snoop where she shouldn't. And I guess befriend people she shouldn't also.


	3. Would It Be A Sin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And, so soon, everything falls apart.

 

  
“Rutherford! Your form is sloppy, stop blocking and fight back! Raise your shoulder higher to tilt the shield down, these are the basics, boy!” Cullen frowned, sweat trickling across his temples and into the creases on his forehead. He fought back a yawn as his practice partner, Roderick of all people, gave him a haughty grin before moving into attack.

Cullen’s blood boiled a little, but he was too tired to get worked up enough at Roderick’s obvious attempt to rile him. He usually bested the boy with ease, Cullen prided himself in being one of the best at combat in their faction, and Antoine scolding him in front of everyone should have cut him deeply.

As it were, Cullen’s mind was on other things. A terrible habit he knew, he was meant to give his full being to the Chantry, to the Templars. Nothing but the grace of the Maker and lyrium song left to fill him up. Cullen wasn’t a rebellious boy by any means, but at age seventeen, he found himself drifting away and questioning things more than was good for him. Besides, he had yet to start taking lyrium regularly anyways, so maybe there was still room in him for other things.

Nobody ever questioned Antoine, and yet Cullen was making faces and rude gestures at his knight-captain in his head.

Enelya was a horrible influence.

When he told her stories of his Knight-Captain and Roderick and the other Templar recruits, she always ended up ranting and throwing insults as if they were bits of bread. She’d flail her hands more and more as she became increasingly incensed, pacing back and forth, and flinging creative and very terrible insults at anyone who had even mildly upset Cullen that day. It made him laugh, and eased away the stresses of the week.

Cullen didn’t ponder it often, but in the thickets and brush of the wild north here, he was mostly alone. The other recruits barely spoke, too enraptured in the thrill and the power of it all. He doubted any of them questioned anything they were told. His only real friend was Enelya, she knew of his fears of failure, his thoughts on his family, his home sickness; he was sure based on the looks she gave him out of the corner of his eye, that she knew more about him than even Cullen did. A strange thought in itself. In return, he knew much about her; her passions and curiosity, how she reveled in nature’s strength but cared for its delicate marvels, her aspirations of becoming first in her clan- whatever that really meant. She never spoke much of her family, if she had one, or her clan members. He didn’t pry, he knew what it felt like to want to keep things for yourself.

He jumped slightly as Roderick feigned a parry and then swept in on his left for a side swing, catching Cullen off guard. He managed to bring a block up in time, but it was poorly placed and skittered off his shield downwards, nearly slicing open his thigh. He grit his teeth, angry at himself or Roderick, or even Antoine, he wasn’t sure.

“Watch it, Rutherford!” Came the latter’s sharp rebuke. With an angry grunt, Cullen pushed back on Roderick’s next swing. Hard. The boy, taken aback by the sudden force, stumbled over his misplaced footwork and crashed into the Templar behind him. A mess of groaning limbs and clanging metal later, and training was called early for the day.

Antoine was probably going to start getting grey hairs soon, Cullen mused. First with the river incident, and now his constant slip ups. His soul and mind were still unquestionably with the Order, with the thoughts of bravery and strength they represented, but his heart....

Cullen's embarrassment meant that he got less food for the day, which meant less bread he could bring for Enelya and the more tired he'd be the next day. He gave Antoine a nervous, abashed half smile before stumbling away into his quarters, hoping to avoid his Commander's notorious wrath and love of punishments. Cullen hated the simple chores he dished out, especially since he'd found himself in charge of them more often as of late. 

He hadn’t missed the pointed, long suffering look Antoine had shot in his direction, however. Nor could he ignore the way his stomach knotted itself uncomfortably afterwards.

 

 

 _________

 

 

“What do you call these?” The light dancing in front of his face was enchanting, beautiful in its simplicity. He’d always been told how magic was dangerous and the work of a curse that those magically inclined were forced to bear; he’d always been taught to be the snuff where the mages were a burning wildfire, and yet the light skipping about in front of him seemed about as harm filled as a low burning candle.

“Hm. Well I suppose…. Mage lights in your tongue would do.” Enelya sat off to the side, sitting in the grass, absentmindedly flinging these ‘mage lights’ in scattered handfuls around them.

He hummed. “I like spark lights better.”

 “I would have thought you’d say mage lights were a ‘practical’ name,  _da’mi_.” Enelya smiled over at him, before bouncing tiny spark lights about on her palm.

“Yes well. You seem….tied. To lightning and energy I mean. So, spark lights just seems…” he trailed off uncomfortably, noticing the look of fond surprise that had filled her features. It was something warm and deep, something more than what they’d allowed themselves to become, and he looked away quickly, a warm heat brushing across his cheeks. She’d been doing that a lot lately, he refused to think too much on what that look meant.

He shrugged, looking at the dancing lights. “Spark lights.”

 “You are a treasure, _da’mi._  Truly.” Cullen heard her quiet muffled giggle, and he pouted dramatically, ignoring the warmth of his face, but glad it was hidden in the dim light from her searching gaze. His stomach was doing a strange swooping thing, again, as it did every time she slipped into Elvish. Something about that particular phrase, she said it with a strange softness that sent shivers down his spine.

“What does that word mean, Enelya? Da mi?” He shifted on his seat turning away from her to gain confidence or shelter, hoping maybe this time she’d actually tell him something of her people. He knew from their year or so of friendship that the Dalish kept their secrets very close, away from prying eyes. Enelya said she trusted him though, what he’d done to earn that he also was unsure.

She sighed. “It is hard to explain,” Cullen shifted readily towards her, “I suppose it would mean little blade to you.”

“Little blade? Is that a nickname or an insult?”

“It’s…” She bit her lip, cheeks darkening, and Cullen blinked in surprise. “It’s a nickname.” He was prepared for jokes, for biting remarks or inquisitive questions, not the sudden shyness of her tone. She’d danced around much of what her language meant, secrets she liked to dance in front of him as a joke. He knew shemlen was an insult, a term used towards humans to describe their slow wittedness and brash attitudes, and he knew the complex series of vowels she said in greeting were that of a friendly nature rather than formality. That particular development had filled him with warmth he tried not to analyze.

She’d tried to teach him some basics, but his clumsy human mouth often turned the string of beautiful flowing words into mashed stew and she’d quickly grown frustrated. “ _Da’mi_ …” he tried again, voice quieter in his focus.

“It means you are…  _my_ metal boy. My little blade.” She whispered. The night had fallen thickly around them, he must have inhaled it and allowed it to stick in his throat. Starlight speckled his veins, unlike the echo of blue of lyrium he felt distant yet full. He heard the twittering of nearby creatures, the feeling of perspiration on his neck. Cullen was acutely aware of Enelya’s eyes on him, the steady intensity of her baited breath. He felt as if he were awake in a dream, a memory of the days after the river sweeping inside of him, reminding Cullen of the fantastical existence of the two of them in this exact moment.

They’d skipped around this before, this strange waltz. In the years of their friendship- it truly was a friendship, greater than any he’d had before- there’d always been something more. Just under the surface. Something that they swept away and didn’t dare try to touch. But maybe….

“Enelya.”

He didn’t intend for his half plea to come out with such a peculiar tone. So, needy and serious.  _Maybe she could… We could…_ He snapped his eyes shut, as if flinching.

She paused, the mage lights- sparks- fading in her surprise. He felt his skin crawl in the sudden darkness, he’d probably crossed some kind of boundary, pushed her too far. Suddenly very afraid she’d slink off into the trees and never return, his mouth dropped open ready to spew apologies at her and beg her to stay, and he blinked wide in a panic, turning to where she had been.

Except she was right in front of him.

Except she was looking at him with something raw and something tender and the words died on his lips.

She reached out, slowly, so slowly, and gently traced the outline of his cheek bone, and his stomach positively lurched at the touch, a warmth settling in and exploding through his veins.

“ _Da’mi,_  you are so special to me.” Her voice was a mere whisper, and she was leaning in, or was he leaning towards her, and their foreheads touched like water rippling on a lake and her eyes were fluttering closed, eyelashes fanning outwards and they looked like snowflakes on her dark skin, and Maker.

Maker help him, but she was beautiful.

“ _Ma vhenan…”_

Her lips were so close, her eyes dark and lidded. Pressing together would be as simple as breathing.

Cullen was drowning, he had been from the very moment he’d met her, but he would never be allowed to come up for air. She smiled, a sad small thing, as she stepped backwards.

“Forgive me,” he could not find his voice, too loud in the fragility of the stars.

“There is nothing to forgive,  _vhenan_. _Ir abelas, da’mi. Mahvir._ ” She placed a hand on the breastplate of his armour, right over his heart, and stepped back into the darkness.

A heaviness followed him as he shuffled back to camp, and he ached in an untouchable way he couldn’t place a name to. He didn’t know what that word meant, vhenan, but a greater portrait of the emotion behind her words was already splashed in vibrant tones across his own soul. Something a little like too much and a lot like not nearly ever enough. This whole friendship, all these meetings, the way she seemed to keep tabs on him during the day, it was all perilous. It led only to pain and misery and they both knew it. Cullen resolved to discuss it with her the next day, to tell her how he really felt. There was no way for it to work, truly, and he knew it as much as it sang a soft sadness into his lungs. 

It didn't stop him from imagining, though, a world where she could join the Templar order with him, or they could meet up once his training were done. Some far off world where they weren't cut apart at the seams by race and mistrust. 

_I will tell her. I'll tell her, tomorrow._

He recited canticle after canticle of the Chant in his head as he stared at the canvas rooftop of his tent that night, and his brother’s coin remained tucked away.

 

 

 _______

 

 

There were whispers. That’s when Cullen should have been nervous. Whispers within the Order were bad, very bad. Templars weren’t meant to keep secrets, they were open and honest and as the Maker’s gaze could see through them anyways secrets served no due purpose. When higher ranking members whispered it meant trouble, it meant be on your guard and take care and pray for forgiveness.

Cullen, however, had been an oblivious fool. He had too many thoughts, too many swirling emotions, too many nearly sleepless nights. It had started with Antoine’s disapproving stare, and snowballed outwards but Cullen hadn’t been aware of himself in time to stop anything. He’d been thinking too much of Enelya, of the next stowed away meeting in the break of twilight, of her lightning and language and mysterious differences.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid._

He’d awoken in the morning, a fitful sleep underwing wrought with too many thoughts and too many possibilities, to a war horn blaring in the distance. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he took in the bleary expressions of the recruits awakening around him, all laced with confusion and fear.

“Up and at ‘em! Come on with you, get!” One of the older Templars charged into their tent, hollering and dressed in full armour and shield. “Don’t you hear the horn? To battle, Templars!”

Instinct took over where Cullen’s brain would not, and he quickly slid on his armour, following the unsteady stream of other recruits into the pale dawn light. The small crowd of their encampment gathered in neat lines in front of Antoine, his stormy expression and stern stance sent ice into Cullen’s veins.

“Templars!” He barked, surveying the nervous crowd. “I have had suspicions for quite some time that our camp had been infiltrated. That spies were in our midst.” A numbness crawled inside of his chest, something foreboding peering just around the corner. “Last night, my suspicions were confirmed. We have caught one such infiltrator.”  _What? Last night? Who could have- oh. Oh Maker, no._

A group of fully armoured Templar’s that stood to Antoine’s left pulled a chain forward, separating a path between them. A chain that was tightly wrapped around a pair of dainty brown hands, and wide, terrified eyes. Part of Cullen, the part he kept tucked away and hidden from the Order, despite everything the Templar’s had taught him, went very still. His heart pumped ice water and acid into his lungs.

“Cullen Rutherford of Honnleath, step forward.” Antoine’s voice was hard edges, unrepentant. He couldn’t feel his legs, but somehow he moved forwards anyway.  _This was it, they knew. About the late night meets and the secrets and her magic…_  The eyes of his entire camp for the past two years fell on him, the sting of Enelya’s gaze burned hotter than dragon fire, but he couldn’t look at her. He feared if he did he would crack apart, collapse in embers.  _What had he done?_

The clap of Antoine’s hand on his shoulder was like thunder breaking across the sky, “Congratulations, my boy. You have done the Maker proud.” The words wouldn’t process, they swam across him in slow circles, like smoke rings from a pipe. “I wasn’t sure what you were up to, sneaking off last night. I’d feared the worst, truth be told, that you’d gone feral. But the Maker guided me to still my hand, and look! A proud Templar you will be, Cullen. Facing off against a Dalish mage alone!” He laughed and turned to address the rest of the camp.

“Cullen here has allowed us to capture this knife ear, the spy! And now we have our ransom. The truth, the real reason we were sent on this mission is one of reconnaissance. Camps nearby have been sending in reports of Dalish too close to supplies, that weapons and other goods along with some of our men had been taken, captured. We were sent as a stand against their blasphemy, a fitting training exercise I did say. The elves infiltrated our very own camp last night, they took much of our weapons and food supplies and left us nearly helpless, but Marcus here found this knife ear, following Cullen here, trailing him.

My boy, it is clear you were trying to protect our camp, you heard the attack and managed to separate one from the group all on your own! A fine accomplishment indeed! Cullen has succeeded in his mission, Maker’s praise be with him!”

Cullen’s mouth was dry,  _succeeded in…. Ransom. Stealing? And he… he helped capture her. Andraste’s arse._  He cast a wild look at Enelya, and felt his heart break to pieces at the tear stains lined on her cheeks. He knew how rough Templar’s could be with prisoners, and how little Antoine cared for elves, Andraste preserve him.  He felt nauseous, dirty. She looked at him with shock at first, then it crumbled into despair and... guilt?  _Why would she be..._

_Enelya was lying._

His mind spun, a wild unhinged spinning of gears that churned endlessly. They were friends, best friends even, there was no one else in the world besides his own family he trusted with his thoughts, his feelings. They'd spent hours discussing everything, his day and his anger towards Roderick, and Antoine's strange habits and mistrust. Enelya had always been a little secretive, granted, he didn't know very much at all about her people, but he'd always assumed she enjoyed listening over talking. Last night she'd been more reserved but she'd called him little blade, she'd called him vhenan, she'd nearly-

Unless....

Unless she'd been the distraction, to draw him away as her clan stole past into the camp.  

His shoulders shook, a sob locked somewhere inside. She'd been lying to him, this whole time, wearing masks like an Orlesian and dancing inbetween half truths and full lies. She'd been watching him, no, watching them. Spying from afar to whisper back to her clan, to steal supplies when they weren't expecting anything, she'd been getting close to learn about his Commander most likely, what with all his complaints and stories. What a fool he'd been, believing her simple curiosity. He'd wanted to believe. 

Anger filled him, briefly. Igniting his hands into fists and his face to stone, he met Enelya's wide eyes with betrayal and anguish.  _You lied to me. We were friends, I lo- I cared about you and you. Lied._

_Never trust the Dalish. O_ _h, the sick and twisted irony. How could he be so blind, so foolish._

_Friends aren't made in the thickets of Thedas, especially not with a damned Mage._

Fists un-clenching, a wave of disgust crashed over him, what if she'd used blood magic. Altered his mind? Made him...care about her more than anything. It would explain so much, his strange compulsion to meet her every night, the way she'd entranced him so entirely. The way she'd sewn herself in his thoughts and dreams so suddenly, made him trust her so completely. She'd crept inside his mind, toyed with the secret wishes and longings he'd stowed away and plucked them out one by one. Cullen had never felt such strong loathing, towards himself, towards her. 

His eyes darkened in hatred, and she nearly flinched away at the sight. "Void take you," he snarled.

Antoine's hand clapped down on his shoulder, “Today, we have sent a message. That the Maker stands against those who would live against His will. That He will not tolerate sinful creatures thieving in the night. If the knife ears will not comply, if they will not leave the area and forfeit their goods, and our captured Templar’s to His name and to the Chantry, we will execute this creature.” He paused, and a rumble of agreement filled the air.

 “If they will not comply, tomorrow, we are at war.”

Cullen's voice roared along with his comrades, fists pounding the air, and a black, bitterness seeping into his soul. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figured I should post as much as I can until school swallows me whole, so I apologize if the next update takes a little longer! Thanks for sticking with me here, I know the beginning has been pretty slow and all that, but I do have a plan. Thank you also for your support, I hope this cliff hanger isn't too mean but honestly? I couldn't resist. If you notice I did change the summary and the tags, I realized that being mysterious and vague wasn't really worth the confusion. Plus slow burn is always more entertaining ;) Anyways! Hope you enjoyed!
> 
> EDIT: sorry guys I'm really having a hard time finishing this one here- I think the plot kinda got away from me? If there are ppl who really want me to update, leave me a comment or a message or smthn and i'll do my best but otherwise it might take me a while. I'm like 3/4ths done the next chapter so I'll try to at least post that one!


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